


Easy Ease

by aqhrodites



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Misinforming Unintended Text Messages, Mutual Pining, PeterMJ - Freeform, Post-Canon, Spideychelle, Spin the Bottle, Taiyaki Ice Cream In The Rain, Teen Romance, cindy is in here much more, everything that involves girls he likes, flash is dared to make a grindr that unexpectedly earns him a date and then a bf, god who knows, he also doesn't take rejection well, mostly from michelle's point of view, not completely, peter parker is bad at these things, this was first planned to be trope-y but I don't think it stayed that way, what happened to sticking to 3k words??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 10:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: There's something cute and harmless and sweet about having a crush on your lab partner.It's almost like a rite of passage—there's the crush on the sports player, the crush on a celebrity, and your school's most popular, and then comes the lab partner. It's like wearing thigh-high socks to gym class, and one's first plum-purple hickey. It's getting a first piercing. It's seeing one's first PG-13 movie unsupervised, or attending a social dance. It's mulled aspirations of mistletoe kisses revealed on pink-nude-blushed cheeks. It's senior-year sleepovers that turn into valentines cut out of spiral-bound notebooks, shaped into hearts, and, words permanent, written in ballpoint Bic pens by sweaty palms. A reverie. It's fun. Flirty. Innocent.There's nothing innocent about Michelle's crush on Peter Parker.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **because i got carried away, this is broken up into several chapters so it's not an overwhelming length.**

It's been a year after Liz Allan-Toomes left.

It's a year after it was revealed that the aformentioned Decathlon captain had been the daughter of acclaimed criminal "Vulture," the news broadcasted like a mouse dangling from a wire to the press. Branded with shame and grief, Liz's mother removed her daughter from her district-assigned school. It had been rumored that they were moving to Oregon. An empty locker is left abandoned with a magnet mirror on the inside door, the sticky white paper leftover of a scraped-off sticker, and there will be a yearbook picture without a predecessor.

Liz and her mother relocated promptly after the end of her father's hearing—him requesting that neither be present during; whether it be by shame, regret, dignity, or all is unknown. Liz will be tranferring to a different school, she told, her mother working to maintain a clean professional slate, and dodging peeving journalist, hooded, skeptical eyes, the awkward, heavy pauses once discovering her last name. The woman is in the process of legally changing her daughter's last name to her maiden one, and getting new documentation to match.

Vulture's trial had been all over the news, because _of course_ it's worth the spot of the eleven o'clock news that New York's own spider superhero had been the one to take down the vicious Vulture.

Because _of course_.

Michelle knows she should feel bad—she does feel bad. Partially. She had known of Liz, but the two had never been _close_. Never in the same social crowd. Never in the same vicinity actually, because of class, because of clubs, because of popularity and _types_ —sometimes Michelle thinks that Liz might have felt piteous for her once—

Well that part's a lie, probably.

Because of mixed emotions, she couldn't force herself to feel _too_ bad.

* * *

 

That, and _other_ motives Michelle would rather not talk about because _reasons_. Most times, she prefers to not think of it at all.

* * *

 

There's something adorable and harmless and _sweet_ about having a crush on your lab partner.

It's almost like a coming of age rite of passage—there's the crush on the sports player, the crush on a celebrity, and your school's most popular, and then comes the lab partner. It's like wearing thigh-high socks to gym class, and one's first plum-purple hickey. It's getting a first piercing. It's seeing one's first PG-13 movie unsupervised, or attending a social dance. It's mulled aspirations of mistletoe kisses revealed on pink-nude-blushed cheeks. It's senior-year sleepovers that turn into valentines cut out of spiral notebooks, shaped into hearts, and, words permanent, written in ballpoint Bic pens by sweaty palms. A reverie. It's fun. Flirty. _Innocent_.

There's nothing innocent about Michelle's crush on Peter Parker.

* * *

 

" _Please_ drink your lemonade safely and _don't_ choke on a seed or whatever, Jesus fucking Christ. I'm not trained in anything so you _will_ die. And if my parents come back to find you dead here, I will haunt you in the afterlife, I swear to God!"

"Relax. I'm not gonna choke, _geez_. This better taste better than that weird mango shit you made me try last time." Michelle tentatively raises the glass to her lips. It's short and round, yellow leaves manufacturely painted around the sides. Ice clinks inside the glass. Her palms are already clamming as she wonders into the living room where the rest of the guests are.

Cindy gives a roll of her eyes in play. "Don't you trust me?"

"I don't know," the other raises a brow, jokingly.

She sucks her teeth. "If I wanted to kill or poison you, wouldn't I have done it by now?"

Michelle nods. "Touche."

It's late. Five hours and seventeen minutes after gather at Cindy Moon's for combined party for winning the county Brain Bowl competition after a two week school break. She was finally allowed to host a celebration party for the evening. Determined to not leave a bad impression, soda bottles and Publix platter sandwiches had been placed around her kitchen table. Games of Blackjack happened across the dinning room bar counter while her Xbox was being occupied in her living room. Music bass bumping through speakers on low volume. Two hours into the whole thing, her uncle, who had been supervising, finally left in an Uber to take him back to his flat.

Now a total of five hours later, Ned is peering into an open can of room-temperature Mountain Dew in his hands. The air smells a little sweet, a little salty, a little earnest—like Monster Energy and Starbursts and insecurities and lovelorn. Opened cans of Pepsi stuff the trashcan and bags of Doritos and Ruffles decorate the living room surfaces. A wet ring of condensation is left in the carpet from Ned's drink.

Michelle's heels of her shoes tap on the rug, knees to her chest, and a warm fuzz creeping across her face. The television plays a rerun of Catfish on muted sound. Halsey plays from the speakers of Cindy's cell phone, muffled from the coffee table. Jackets are left, thrown across the back of kitchen chairs, hanging on the edge of the sofa. The remaining of the Decathlon students sit around an empty Coors bottle on her living room floor.

Flash closes the his eyes, exhales, and reluctantly withdraws his cellphone and opens the app store. This whole ordeal was not a part of his plan. This hadn't been part of his intentions to happen so early yet. He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the _Download_  button before he closes his eyes again and presses it.

This was _really_ not a part of his plans yet.

He watches as the bar loads, and soon the orange masked logo appears on his home screen. He taps open Grindr. He already feels _vulgar_. Feels bared.

The profile information is simple enough, though he doesn't have any selfies that suddenly seem _right_. He decides on a modest headshot of himself wearing sunglasses, a sun flare conveniently casting most of his features in shadow. His hair is hidden under a tilted baseball cap, but it's undeniably him, and he's got on his favorite sweater and throwing up a hand sign. It's a good picture, he thinks.

Now, to say something about himself; Flash pauses. He types something quick into the profile description, something confident, something dishonest.

He presses  _Enter_.

Inside his head, he's is screaming.

Taking another self-assuring inhale, he flips his phone around to show the others. An eruption of giggles come from them all.

"Alright, alright. _Shut up!_ I did it, alright?"

Cindy, Abraham, and Sally lean closer to at his phone. Abraham mumbles that it's a nice photo chosen. Across from Flash, Ned is tapping away on his own phone.

Giving an appointed glare, Flash hisses through gritted teeth, "happy now?"

His answer is the loud, unmistakable shutter of the boy taking a screen shot. "I am now," he grins.

"Dude— _dude_ _!_ Why the fuck do you have _Grindr_ on your phone?"

Ned slides his phone in his back pocket. "No reason anymore." He's smiling, cocksure.

And of course, Flash is ready to throw hands, rearing forward, words brash and defensive. Beside him, Michelle sips from her short glass, putting no effort into stop the oncoming feud. It's,  un-surprisingly, Abraham who is sitting at Flash's other side who places a hand on the acclaimed DJ's shoulder, making him immediately calm.

Michelle raises a knowing brow to Cindy Moon sitting across from her, raising the clear glass of homemade lemonade to her mouth, slurping loudly. Beside Cindy is Sally on her left, and Peter on her right, followed by Ned. Michelle makes a purpose to not look towards Peter.

Especially because he's wearing that same sweatshirt he let her borrow following a lab experiment that went awry.

Especially since Michelle  _knows_ that she's being stupid, being overdramatic—she's over-thinking, over-analyzing. She's melodramatic. Moody and reactive and _ridiculous_ , really, because classroom lab experiments don't explode unless you're not paying attention, and there's no big deal or any  _significance_ from borrowing a sweatshirt. It doesn't make you friends, and there's no reason for her heart to hurt—because hearts don't  _hurt_. They don't break or shatter, because they're nothing but combinations of nerves, muscles, and extraneous chemicals reacting in the brain—and she's overexerting herself, she is.

Michelle takes another drink from her glass, unexpectedly emptying its contents, trying to think of things that definitely aren't like the navy blue of his NASA pullover sweater or the cherry red of his ears, and she promptly begins _choking_ on a lemon seed as her name is called.

"Flash, _enough_ ," Cindy calls. Then, nodding appointedly, "MJ. Your turn."

And she freezes. Hearing swimming, lowly re-syncing with reality, and she hesitates. She remembers the thin ribbon knotted around her pinkie and the dirt-stained fronts of her converses, and she tucks a chestnut brown flyaway curl behind her ear—double-pierced, a new diamond stud in the recent third hole—and she sighs. " _God_ ," the familiar, drawling swear falls from her as she scoots closer, gives the Coors bottle a good spin.

She hadn't had expectation—had muddled in the possible truths or dares that could be asked from her in this reverse version of the game, as well as possible smart-ass remarks in answer to those assigned. She hadn't expectations, no mater how much she reiterates inwardly.

The bottle spins. And it slows, slows, slows, _stops_ —

It's probably her own fault, she supposes.

The glass bottle neck stops on wide, doe eyes under a navy blue hood with a half empty glass slick with condensation in one hand and a partially, _questionable_ look of surprise. Peter's wide eyes dart from the bottle and up to her like they do in class, staring expectantly, waiting. He almost doesn't blink, not for what feels like twenty entire minutes.

Michelle squeezes her eyes closed, feigning that she's thinking of a task to ask.

"You should dare to kiss Frogman," Flash suggests, too eagerly.

It has to be her fault, she thinks.

Michelle fingers tap across the sun-yellow leaves decorating her now-empty glass, and her chest tightens—because she's as annoyed by Flash, of course, as _everyone_ , that _has_ to be it, yes—and her head tilts, tongue darting out to slide languidly across her lip, squints as she thinks, muses. And, "why don't _you_ , Flash? Since you're so eager, you know?"

The teen is flabbergasted, excuse stuttered and lame. The snickers pronounced.

Holding up a hand and turning to the quieted one, the girl continues. "Though it's _temping_ ," she speaks with a straight face, a hard glare, "I'd rather kiss someone in the right moment and not over the contents of a _dare_. So I'm going to overrule that suggestion."

The sound of her fingernails _tap-tap-tapping_ against her glass along each syllable as she decides, finally. "Truth."

She'd had no expectations, really. She hadn't hoped for anything.

"Have you ever lied to someone you had strong relations with? Who was it and what was it about? Feelings are fine...everyone's being open here, so..."

She hadn't, _really_ —

"Yes. Liz," Peter answers.

The name stabs Michelle with a feeling that's both yearning and envy. She had just gotten used to it jointing the pile of abandoned, unused subject words, and honestly, it stings.

Their small circle of friends grow quieter and awkward.

It was her own fault, she concludes.

* * *

 

There's something cute and innocent about having a crush on one's lab partner.

* * *

 

(They aren't lab partners anymore.)

* * *

 

It's a known fact that Peter had been the boyfriend of Liz Allan-Toomes before her leave—it isn't hard to remember after abandoning her on the dancefloor literal _minutes_ after arriving to prom, but—he hadn't been a _boyfriend_ , but a had-maybe, a had-almost, a had-could've-been. The boy's a nerd, a dork, a fucking flaker, and he's terrible, absolutely _terrible_ —

And Michelle's demeanor immediately changes, relaxes even, and she's as light as a feather, becoming warm and technicolor within vicinity.

This always happen after the turn of his head or behind the hardcovers of books, just when no one is watching, suspecting, expecting.

* * *

 

Two weeks following Cindy's shoddy excuse of a house party, Michelle's skulking around the sandy back halls at the East side of the school building, somewhere between the ceramics classroom and art fundamentals, sleeves rolled back, hair tied up messily by a scrunchie, lips chapped, sun beating down from the wide windows. Everything smells of sawdust, of paints and wet clay and lost innovation and stale Great Value coffee. It's quiet; it's solitude and serene here. She comes in-between class periods and recently for lunch because there's never crowds of students, others she has to dart around, or hide from. No one's stares linger when she's isolated at cafeteria bench tables or noses wrinkle with me brings avocado and tomato sandwiches, and it's just. It's so much more calming. Until today.

When there's a squeaking of running sneakers, she ignores it. The rustling of clothes. A trip across the floor, scuff, a barely censored curse. A stop. A stare. And then an, "uh—Michelle?" she hears someone say.

It takes her a minute to register that she isn't alone anymore, that it isn't the teachers passing by in acknowledged greeting again or a lost student. And then she's looking back over the sandwich already halfway in her mouth, and she's taking in _a lot_ of heaving, flushed skin, and ruffled brown hair, and the same ugly pair of ripped denim jeans that are insisted on being _lucky—_ the same pair of ripped denim that Peter Parker had been wearing when gotten snagged on a sharp edge, ripping, nearly flashing a roomful of students, and spending an entire class hiding in the gym locker room while getting them stitched up. When he sprinted after her out of school at the end of that day. After scrawling Michelle's number in surprisingly messy handwriting on the inside of his arm in red ink.

He hadn't called her.

He had given some excuse. She can't remember what is was right now.

The red ink had reminded her of blood. A blood promise.

She's cynical.

(He hadn't considered calling her.)

"Uh," he says, freezing in mid-run. Pose relaxing. He scratches at his jaw. There's a shitty stoner alternative band playing from the computer speakers inside the ceramics classroom. The teen before her needlessly pulls the sleeves down of his long shirt. A bunch of lanky White dudes wearing Zumiez and Bob Marley t-shirts exit pass the two. "Hey...?"

Michelle raises an eyebrow, taking a bite of her sandwich. "Hey. Skipping class?"

He's stiff. Hands fidget, cracking his knuckles. His fly is down, going unnoticed. He shrugs. "Nah. I'm just—just. I gotta—got a _thing_ I have to—to get to...?"

She presses her lips together like she's considering, contemplating. She looks him over intently, a painfully obvious judging stare. And he doesn't know what to do when her eyes linger on his zipper, brows rising—he shuffles uncomfortably.

"Yeah," she muses, almost coming out as a scoff. Through a window of the wood shop class, she watches a student carve a feature too thin, the wood snapping. " _Something_. Well go have fun with that."

Suddenly, it's unbearably warm underneath his three layers of clothes. "What—no! Don't think that! It's not—it's not like that this time!"

" _This_ time? How many times have you done _this_?"

And the reddening of his ears is clearly seen in the dim lighting.

"No—never mind..."

Suppressing a grin, she waves him away. "Nah I'm joking, you loser. I really don't care."

"Oh." He twists the fabric of his sweater in his hands. "Uh, I really came down here looking for you. Cindy said that she saw you down here. Before—once, so—"

Squinting, "I don't talk to Cindy. How would she know that?"

"And actually you kinda talk to all of us, so," he shrugs. "Just her the most. I guess. I don't know. She considers you a friend."

Michelle stares, skeptical. It's one of those dark stares, ones that could bare through your soul and are cold, calculating, scrutinizing. He—doesn't know what to do with that. It's really fucking hot underneath his layers of clothing. He's becomes kind of lightheaded.

"So," she says, gaze raking over the uncertainty in his stance, his arms, over his chest, and another corny fucking typography on his t-shirt, and she has on a burgundy cardigan, an open notepad beside her, and is wearing the most condescending fucking glare, honestly. "She asked you to come check on me?"

"No." He rocks back on his heels. "Was looking for you because you usually sit with us and you—and Ned said that you haven't for the past couple _weeks_ , so—"

"Oh. _Ned_ told you, huh? That's nice. Tell him that I'm _so grateful,_ yeah?" she comments, dismissively. Michelle turns back to her food in her lap. "Is that it?"

His head bows, scratches the nape of his neck. Again, he fidgets. His red undershirt pokes up from the neck of his t-shirt. He jiggles on his heels. The strap of his bag digs into his shoulder and he thinks—he hopes—he guesstimates—that he has enough time to put off. That he could run off across rooftops after classes instead of in-between. In the distance, he picks up the wailing of sirens and becomes slightly more at ease.

Scuffing the toe of his sneaker, he asks, nearing, "well? Do you not want to come sit with us _weirdos_ , or, you're too cool now, right?" he jokes, sliding into a space on the open bench.

"Please. I've always been _way_ cooler than you, Parker," she jokes. She re-adjusts in her seat. "Just...felt like being alone. Sometimes you have you do your own thing, you know?"

He nods, and they sit in mutual silence for almost a full minute. "Sketching people in crisis again?" Glancing inside the wood shop class, he points at the student who accidentally snapped a thin piece in half. "That guy looks perfect. You can draw little sparks coming from his head."

She leans forward to look past him and into the class. The student of topic has been frantically searching for glue, about to use it on his piece before being found out and scolded by the teacher.

"That's...actually not a bad idea." Then, as if just occurring to her, "I'm surprised you remember that."

It's been months since either have spent time in detention. Now, Michelle would never go as a past time to wait for her ride. Or just to spend her afternoon, of course.

He shuts one eye and grins. It's boyish and alarmingly bashful. "Yeah," he says, like he's sharing a secret. "What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?"

Her feet begin swinging beneath her chair, a strawberry-sweet, fervid warmth begins swirling in her stomach. "Oh?" she teases, taking a decisive shift in her seat. "We're friends, are we?"

"Yeah." He pauses. Waits. A cheeky grin pulls at his face. "But _d_ _on't_ think I forgot about that ten dollars you still owe me, by the way."

She curses under her breath.

She had hoped he forgot about that.

* * *

 

There's something comforting about having a crush on your lab partner—

Crush—no. They are companions at best. Friendly strangers. Associates.

They aren't lab partners anymore.

There's nothing easy about Michelle's alleged feelings about Peter Parker. Usually, she tries to push them to the back of her mind. Pushing them put of sight, out of mind, out of existence.

* * *

 

"So," Flash begins, saddling beside her one early afternoon after another Decathlon meeting. The room is full of people who are occupied and who aren't paying attention, so there's not much holding him back when he cuts straight to the subject. "How long have you been digging Parker? But first I have to be honest—I'm shocked!"

Michelle stiffens, inwardly startled, her widen eyes unmistakable for the millisecond Flash caught, but she coughs, re-composes. Hardens. Scowls. "What makes you think _I_ could like a doofus like _him_?"

The tilt of Flash's chin is telling and he tisks. "I'm being serious, MJ. I'm not dumb or _blind_. And no one can misread those obvious _heart eyes_ you gave after him since last year. It was _disgusting_. Burned into my retinas. I'm partially blind because of you."

"I dunno...sounds like you might need to indeed get your eyes checked out again. Especially since this is like, what, the third time you forgot your contacts? You're already as blind as a bat, Flash."

For a moment, he's silent, partially surprised and partially startled. Instead of answering, he snaps, "don't bullshit me, MJ. I know you."

She rolls her eyes.

"No, you were _so_ into Peter since last year. I was sitting _right next_ to you. I _saw_."

"Oh really? When?" she challenges, squinting.

"Last year. After winning the Decathlon Nationals. Right before Liz left."

There was that name again. It stirred mixed emotions in the girl, partially nostalgic and partially vitriolic. She squints, hesitates the slightest degree so that it's not suspicious.

"That's a pretty long time ago. You're making this up." It's more of a statement than a question.

"I saw what I saw. Plus you'd be a waste to tease about this." He's smiling, snark and suspicious. He then begins to pester her, bombarding her with question after question about _why_ , and _when did it start exactly_ , and if she is going to act on it, and what made her standards low so much. "No, no. I'm joking. But really. Why _him_ —"

She gets up and storms off with an outburst initiating blame and to "lay off worming into people's personal business, alright?"

* * *

 

The day after second Sunday, Michelle winds up volunteering for a drop-off at an address that's in a home for physically sick individuals and who need nurses on call all hours of the day.

It isn't a big deal. She's, like, a model employee. Professional as hell, they tell her. She's punctual and organized and polite enough that she's obtained a _way_ better reputation than Donovan does with all the frat boys bullshit he's so obsessed with, and the mini copycat dudebros he's been molding for recruitment, regardless of his perfectly straight teeth and overpriced lattes he manages to spill on himself each and every time. In comparison, Michelle's customer service skills are fucking amazing. She's got this.

When she pulls out a chair in an empty lobby area at the end of her scheduled hours, the street lights are flickering on. It's quiet. Elevator music plays from speakers in the ceiling. Red flannel cotton blankets are folded, tucked into cupboards beneath Elle Decor and Health magazines. A clock with a cartoon of a white lamb inside hangs above an unlit fireplace. The wooden rocking chair scrapes across the tile floor as Michelle rolls back and forth. She wishes she had brought her bag with her this time. At least then she would have a book to reoccupy her time.

She glances at the clock on the wall. _Chicken Soup For The Soul_ sits on a nearby end table. Her ride is late for pickup.

Since, she hasn't heard from Flash. At first he would make exaggerated, comical gestures, winks, eye signals. Then, Michelle began avoiding him, ignoring him, raising whatever book is in her hands to create a boundary between them both. Coincidently, Peter has been missing quite a number of after-school meetings—the third as of this week.

But it's not like Michelle was keeping track.

Or counting the number of excuses Ned has been creating—which he's begun repeating from lack of, she pointed out just yesterday.

Given that her ride home from volunteering is late, she sends a reminding text and waits a few minutes that turn into an hour, that turn into frantic seven passive aggressive text messages and four voicemails.

She has time to kill at this point. What she doesn't expect, is to spend it staring in confusion at her phone's screen as a familiar unsaved number pops up in her notifications.

 _New message_.

She waits a minute before her phone bleeps again, receiving two more messages.

_Hey_

_This is a time sensitive urgent question! Flowers or no? Would that be too weird, is that even a good idea? You SURE it would be a good idea—_

Her heart sinks at the second to last lines she's able to preview from her phone's lock screen. The ID does not have a name, but Michelle already knows who it is. She's familiar with the texting pattern. Opening her messaging app, she reads the messages in full, her phone going off with each rapidly received text. It began with asking "how many times is too many until it's annoying," before veering off onto nervous perspiration.

_And what's a fail safe solution to sweating? Bcuz this control your heart beat shit doesnt work._

_I just_

_This is embarrassing._ _Happens every time when we talk_

_Ive like literally just dug my own grave_

_How am i supposed to walk up and say something if i look like i was just came out of a pool_

_You cant look cool like this._ _And dont suggest that cologne. That stuff smells_

_Ned_

_NED!!!!!_

A small, amused grin grows as Michelle picks up on the next buzz. It's a another frantic text revealing that he's about to leave the store and he doesn't know when he'll be able to get back. Once again, Michelle hesitates, but not long enough than she would have liked; she acts without much thought.

_**Hey.** _

_**Use baby powder.** _

_**It doesn't smell and absorbs good.** _ _**Hope whoever likes your flowers** _

She hits the send arrow in automatic reflex. There's a noticeable pause in the once continuous chimes of notifications. And Michelle wonders if she's scared him off, if she should have even responded at all.

It's almost a full seven minutes until her phone receives another string of texts.

_Shit wrong number_

_Im sorry mj. My bad_

_Jc_

And just like that, the small glimmer of—hope, optimism, wistful potential—flutters out from her chest. Her fingers tighten around her cellphone, thumbs digging into the phone case.

Her phone chimes, vibrates.

_Ignore those texts_

_Shit im sorry i didnt mean for you to see that!_

_Can we pretend like this conversation just never happened?_

She sits, silently debating, silently questioning _is he serious?_ Michelle purposely waits to hit send for her response: a single, ominous " ** _Lol_**." The follow-up reply is immediate.

_Please?_

_Mj_

She leaves Peter on _Read_.

She doesn't immediately know why she feels personally victimized.

* * *

 

(8:27 pm) _Cmon answer your phone_

(8:28 pm) _...please_

(8:28 pm) _Mj_

(8:30 pm) _Look im really really sorry about those texts! Youre right they were too tmi, BUT MY BAD_

(8:34 pm) _Where are you_

(8:35 pm) _I swear to god they were meant for ned_

(8:35 pm) _Dont try to twist that ^ i dont know how but dont_

(8:42 pm) _Look that stuff was really embarrassing and i didnt mean for you to see it. Like at all_

(8:43 pm) _Can you not tell anyone about it?_

(8:45 pm) _Mj?_

(8:45 pm) _Im practically begging here_

(8:48 pm) _Youre not that soulless_

(8:50 pm) _And i know you don't have anything sunday nights_

(8:56 pm) _M J_

**_✔ Read 8:59 pm_ **

(9:37 pm) _OH MY GOD_


	2. Chapter 2

The following Monday, Michelle squints and fiddles with the combination on her locker door. She's pretty sure that her timing is still on schedule so that she's on time to dodge Flash's suggestive brow wiggles, to avoid Ned and his friend just like the continuous buzzing of her phone. Partially because she isn't totally sure what to say. Whatever she would type would likely bring the hell out of the situation, she's sure.

She doesn't deal with these type of situations.

She's just stuffed a Calculus textbook in her backpack when she catches out of her peripheral, another recently-bought book bag bouncing, earphones slung, flying from his neck, and indie band still blaring. Michelle feels a rush of urgency and hurries to grab the rest of her things, and is turning to leave, when she's stopped by an out of breath Peter.

Michelle's senses are dialed to _high_ , and a hidden plastic rabbit's foot keychain is poking out from the pocket of her tight jeans, and she shuffles her book bag higher on her right shoulder. The inside of her locker smells like mango body spray.

There's a healing cut underneath Peter's left eye, and the boy smells like burning smoke, like something charred, Michelle can tell because he's close, like the locker door is nonexistent. He's _close_. And Michelle's _fine!_

She clears her throat. She puts on a face of pessimism.

"Uh," he says, drumming his fingers against his sides. Wipes his hands on his jeans. His ears are an abnormal pink—or it could be the oncoming cold weather, she thinks. "MJ?"

"Hey." She slams her locker door. He doesn't flinch. "What's up?"

"About that text I accidentally sent you—"

"Yeah, did the baby powder ever work—?"

She's cut off by his embarrassed shushing. He backtracks in a lowered voice. "Yeah. It did. Thanks." Then, in louder, normal volume, he asks, "about that text, you know you never gave an answer...and I hope there's no hard feelings...?"

"You're a dork. Why would I have _any_ hard feelings against you?" she replies, apathetic.

He squints at first. Calculates. Judges. "Because it's like you were avoiding us, and I thought there was _something_."

She brushes loosened curls behind her ear, jiggles her bag, giving the notion that she has to _leave_. _Now_. "Nope. Just," her words trail and she shrugs again. "Same 'ol, same 'ol."

"And at lunch?"

"I just like the hall with the ceramics classroom better." Then, suddenly becoming vaguely defensive, "is that a problem?"

He's still looking skeptical. He begins speaking about his ignored messages when Michelle asks, "what was those texts for anyway? What are you so worried about? And flowers? _Really_?"

And it's like the pink from his ears spread up his neck to his cheekbones. A believable coherent response gets jumbled from the translation from his brain to his mouth.

"Yeah, it's whatever, Parker. Didn't expect a response. I don't really care either way." Her hands waves dismissively.

"Yo—you don't?" His eyes widen, despondent and doe-like.

It could have been her imagination, but he appeared more dispirited than she thought he would be.

* * *

 

There's a meet-and-greet held at a Borders bookstore, Cindy tells. Knowing it's one of Michelle's favorite authors, she proposes the outing.

They stand in line for three hours. They don't get a personal signature, the author's cell chirping and wheeling him out the doors.

* * *

 

The next day, Michelle misplaces her favorite mug. She sees a second floor janitor using it after school one day.

* * *

 

On Thursday, Michelle gets an unanticipated text. The time it isn't an accident. It isn't a random inclusion of an ongoing conversation.

It's a simple of clarification on the author she likes. He heard from Cindy, Peter clarifies over text.

Michelle doesn't save his number.

* * *

 

"So," he says, sliding into class mere seconds before the bell rings. He's sporting a large bandage on his chin, sleeves rolls haphazardly up to his elbows. He smells vaguely of Neosporin.

Michelle looks up from the thin paperback in her hands, trying to appear nonchalant when a book is slid across her desk, the front cover open to read the looped chicken scratch signature in blue fountain pen ink written on the first page. Though she initially attempts to appear nonchalant, the look in her eyes doesn't go unnoticed.

But she merely raises an eyebrow.

Peter doesn't comment on it.

Sliding into the desk beside her, he takes the seat in the chair with the big, permanent white stain in the seat. He never likes that seat. A suspicion is that it's whiteout; another that it's paint.

"A book," she states the obvious. The teen watches his face drop, contort into something she couldn't read. "Are you ok today?"

"Uh," the brunette replies dumbly. There's a faint bruise near his ear, and his lip had been busted, now healing. "Yeah. Why?"

She shrugs. "You said you hated that seat."

His tongue darts out to wet his lip, nervous, anxious, the thought completely abandon from his mind. Then, he blurts, "what do you know about this author?" His toe is bouncing, finger tapping the desktop. He's overwrought. He's debating about something; something is gnawing on his mind.

She decides not to question him about it, or the rude, conspicuous bruise on his face. Answering his ask, she holds up the cover of the book she's currently reading for him to see. It's a stand-alone novel written by the same author. It's the same title that was being given away at the book signing, the autograph Michelle hadn't been able to get is written in blue fountain pen ink. She's quite jealous, but doesn't let it show. "I know he's not well known but he should be, in my opinion," she comments. "Most of his stuff is heavy and has been banded by some schools. Mainly because religious reasons. And _touchy_ topics as said by certain parents."

Peter nods. Then, squinting like he actually for once in his life is honestly interested, or like he's suddenly developed a deep, intensive thought, Michelle thinks. "You're birthday's coming up; it's in early November, right?" he changes the subject suddenly. "You never told anyone, I don't think."

She shifts in her seat, suspicious and curious. Her words come slow and cautious, because she has to tread carefully, warringly. "That's because it's not in November. Where did you get that date from anyway?" A faint chuckle punctuates the question, not quite taunting, but not quite _not_.

"Facebook." Peter blinks wildly, shocked. It's amusing—he had been so confident.

The teacher stands from her desk at the far left wall. Behind the desk is a world map printed in primary, elementary-grade colors. A Miami Dolphins car flag is hanging by pushpins in the wall's corner; there's a blue dolphin plushie on a shelf, and several Crayola markers and magazine cut-out collages from past students hanging by picture frames. The woman begins striding to the front of the Smartboard across the classroom. She's an English teacher that Michelle is seventy percent sure has a _little_ _something_ going on with the twelfth grade Economics instructor.

"Oh." And Michelle wraps her hands around her tall thermos at the end of her desk. She's still in her jacket, navy blue knitted cardigan poking out from the bottom. It's first period class. She shrugs and Peter catches a slight shiver of a chill, hair messily cascading from underneath a beanie hat, the chapping of her lips as her tongue darts out. "I just put it there to see if people would actually use that. It's not true."

Peter wants to ask what her birthday is, actually.

He licks his own lips in an unconscious mimic.

Class begins.

* * *

 

Objectively, Cindy understands that she's in no fastened position, or in _precisely_ the right place to say—but she blurts it one Wednesday afternoon when tagging aside Michelle on the way to another Decathlon practice. She reveals that she's heard there was gossip surrounding Flash and Abraham, allegedly featuring that now-deleted Grindr account the former was dared to create months ago.

That wasn't the part she was complaining about, she reasons as she gives an overenthusiastic, overdramatic forlorn slump to the side. It's about how the cold weather always seems to draw people together—as Hollywood has encouraged it through cheap, two-star Hallmark movies the girl always gets stuck watching with her grandmother. Cindy complains how everyone seems to be getting together—Abraham and Flash, if the too-quick, too-happy rumors were true; some girl in her biology class; even Peter fucking Parker—

Cindy overshares that she heard him and Ned whispering about getting flowers for some girl's birthday. That neither knew what exactly to do. That he ended up getting something completely different, something hard to obtain but he had " _connections_ " and came to school all cheesing smiles. That it didn't turn out the way he wished, and was in a sour mood for that entire past week.

Michelle remembers his pressing about the book he purchased. He had asked what she thought about it, and the green eyed monster pushed from her mouth a curt, "so what about it?" He had gone tight-lipped and quiet following.

In the hallways to Decathlon practice, Michelle only nods in acknowledgment to her friend.

The other complains that "everyone is hooking up with everyone;" that she wishes she could get in a relationship.

Michelle quips about the industry shoving ideals and unrealistic expectations down society's throats to up holiday sales.

During their Deathcalon practice, Michelle watches—the alarming awkwardness of Flash, the indifference or blatant _ignoring_ of Abraham, and Peter's chin on his folded arms the entire time. Neither look at each other or speak except when spoken to. Michelle stands at the front with quizzing questions in her hands. There's too much tension.

She bites her bottom lip.

Michelle's stomach churns when Mr. Harrington orders for the students to straighten up and focus.

Cindy had said everyone is beginning to like everyone, leaving her behind and alone.

Michelle feels guilty.

* * *

 

Michelle doesn't watch the news coverage often, choosing to read it online at her own pace.

But when there is a bomb scare that almost gets school cancelled the next day, she sits and tunes in.

The bomb doesn't go off. School isn't cancelled.

* * *

 

She receives a text message from Cindy that weekend while out clothes shopping at Burlington's. The girl is telling that she's heard from Sally, who heard to from the twin of another friend that he saw Abraham riding shotgun in Flash's ugly ass convertible. Then, he had seen the two straggling behind in the locker rooms, and give a _mighty_ close a hug.

Cindy texts that Sally said, "it's about damn time."

Cindy herself begins pitying herself and her lack of romance.

Michelle leaves her on _Read_ without a comment.

* * *

 

There's a guy that comes to Michelle's volunteer jobs almost coincidently on her every hour on Saturday, at almost exactly the same time.

At first, there's another employee—a highly annoying dudebro in uncomfortably low v-necks and smelling of Banana Republic and something cheap, like styrofoam peanuts—but then he gets meningitis from what he says was  from an innocently swapped Gatorade bottle after practice; and Bethany decides to fucking quit _again_ so she can go fuck her boyfriend before he leaves off for Puerto Rico or wherever; and suddenly there's a massive hole in the weekend schedule and Michelle's shifts have been maneuvered into taking over the late afternoon on the day before _a blood moon_ and it's—

It's not that she's superstitious; Michelle notices the woman in hazy peripheral focus, her anxious fragmented jitters.

She's tall, lean, veiny yellow hands and greying, silky black hair kept long and in a ponytail and a little messy, and slanted, sagacious eyes. She has a slight gap between her two front teeth. She drums her fingers against the kitchen island counter during breakfast and likes to talk about her nephew who's stationed back in China. There are deep crow's feet at the edges of her eyes. As she waits to order, foot jiggling underneath the table, she'll ask Michelle about her day. Sometimes they'll talk for minutes. Sometimes hours.

Michelle tells about being Decathlon captain and her hopes of succeeding the shoes she's filling. The woman would discuss stories of her youth-hood and about a polished tiger's eye paperweight she keeps hidden in her room. Sometimes Michelle would talk about difficult school lessons of that week over a game of Checkers, and the woman would ask about the young boy Michelle likes. Upon this, the girl always shifts, changes, scratches her hand and corrects, " _did_ like. Like, years ago," she lies and prefers to not discuss it further.

The woman leans back, stretches her neck to the side, watching the young woman's moves across the red and black board, and crosses her arms over her chest. She rocks back and forth in her chair—she seems incapable of sitting still at times, like she's got an endless well of nervous energy, slight twitches, and Michelle wonders idly, why the woman continuously requests caffeinated drinks at breakfast time whilst knowing this.

The both wonder a lot of things, honestly.

"—absolutely no honey. Sugar, yeah, and berries. Black, blueberries, uh, starfruit and dragon. Dragonfruit. No juice, just water." She explains her preference for blended fruit, a new strategy they're trying with patrons to ease them into eating more fruits.

Michelle jumps a red piece over two of her opponent's. "That sounds delicious."

The woman nods. "Like I said last time..."

"Which was?" Three of Michelle's pieces are taken.

"It's a pity." When the teen questions for further explanation, the woman clarifies, "it's a pity that you say you don't like him anymore. He's a nice boy."

Michelle is confused. "But you've never met him. I don't think I've ever talked about him."

She has before, she's corrected. But it was in small details, in words in passing—a fellow teammate who constantly arrives late; the lab partner who spilled coffee down his shirt on the first day; who she's had in-depth conversations about social progress; who's selfie he saved as his contact picture in her phone and who's number she promptly deleted after an argument that left them avoiding each other for three weeks.

"He's a nice boy because you wouldn't like a _stupid_ boy. Not like that—what's his name? Quicker?" She snaps her fingers trying to recall Flash's nickname. "You're a nice girl, Michelle."

The teen sits back with her elbows across her knees, staring. Appropriate words escape her. The two are used to talking often and talking long, and Michelle knows better than to lie to the woman.

The elderly woman feigns focus on the checkerboard, rubbing her chin before plucking a black checker, contemplating her next move.

"Am I wrong?"

Michelle thinks. "No. He's nice, yeah, but..."

The woman's eyes dart to meet the teen's stare.

"But it's complicated."

"You're young," the woman dismisses.

"But it's still complicated. That isn't going to go away."

The old woman nods. "You really like him." It's less of a question. When Michelle objects this, she cuts the other off: "you do. You like him a lot, you do." And when she's challenged of just _how_ , the woman's reply is foretelling. "I can tell. I can see it in your eyes."

Michelle nods, not very convinced. She moves a checker piece per her move.

"You don't believe me," she reads.

Michelle doesn't give a direct answer. "Like I said: I just don't like him anymore." Her lips purse. "...Not much."

"Ah."

Just as the woman then jumps four more of Michelle's pieces and wins the game, the teen's phone vibrates as a new text message. She's urged to answer it, that she won't be tattled on. "That's him isn't it?"

To Michelle's surprise—or lack of—it was. The same unsaved number sending a steady string of double, then triple texts. She doesn't answer them.

"Go ahead," she's encouraged. "You're still young. If you don't ever face it, it will forever be _complicated_."

Michelle turns her phone over in her hands.

* * *

 

When she answers, this time it's an apology. Kind of.

* * *

 

(7:44 pm) _Hello Mj_

(7:44 pm) _Again_

 _(7:46 pm) As due to previous several_ _absences, would it be of any possible approval for me to hopefully borrow your copy of yesterday's homework? Or is that too frank?_

(7:47 pm) _P.S._

_(...)_

(7:47 pm) **_Wtf is wrong is wrong with you?_**

(7:48 pm) **_Are you being held hostage?_**

(7:50 pm) **_Or is ned not answering again?_**

(7:51 pm) _Hes not..._

(7:51 pm) _I was trying to be polite_

(7:54 pm) ** _Btw where were you? We had a quiz today that important we were told one no one was supposed to miss. And there was a drill._**

(7:55 pm) ** _Plus mr harrington was kind of pissed today. This is the same shenanigans you pulled last year._**

(7:55 pm) ** _And he was very close to kicking you off the team you know._**

(7:56 pm) _Yeah i know_

(7:58 pm) _Was out. I fell down the stairs_

(7:59 pm) ** _Wtf_**

(7:59 pm) ** _Thats the most bullshit excuse youve given yet parker_**

(7:59 pm) ** _Youll need to think of a better one when you show up tomorrow. Im only saying tat for your own good. And grades_**

(8:00 pm) _I know_

(8:01 pm) _My bad_

(8:01 pm) ** _Your bad_**

(8:02 pm) _Mj_

(8:02 pm) _Im sorry_

(8:03 pm) ** _?_**

(8:03 pm) _Really I am_

(8:11 pm) _**[Sends a picture]**  
_

(8:11 pm) _ **[Sends a picture]**_

(8:11 pm) _ **[Sends a picture]**_

(8:12 pm) ** _Just to be clear, im not doing this as a favor_**

(8:14 pm) _THANK YOU_

(8:14 pm) _Then why are you doing this then?_

(8:15 pm) ** _Oh my god really_**

(8:15 pm) _Aw you like me. Mj likes me!_

(8:16 pm) ** _Blockedt!_**

(8:16 pm) _Hahahaha_

(8:19 pm) _Wait_

(8:23 pm) _Youre not serious are you?_

(8:25 pm) _M J_

(8:26 pm) _I was joking!_

(8:29 pm) _There's still facebook!_

* * *

 

There are motives, reasonings to why Michelle would rather not discuss her alleged _past feelings_ involving Peter Parker, much less think about them currently. It's wrapped in a layer of guilt, coated in a feeling of betrayal, and marinated in the high-expectations of daydreams, and deep fried in self consciousness. Because he had been the love interest of her friend, Liz. Because he had never had eyes for Michelle, though she didn't let that bother her, hinder her. It was a disappointment, sure, but—

It was a complication.

Being friends was settling, but Michelle isn't going to be picky, or force or bribe or deceive.

Her thumb hovers over the _Open to read_ button on her phone. She's lying facedown in her bed pillows. She yawns, and eyes already stinging, a tear falls from the corner of each eye. She rubs her face into her pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

The next few days are a disaster, naturally.

There are the sad rumors that Abraham allegedly dumped Flash the weekend prior, and the latter skulks with a crumpled expression and silence, which is a rare scene. There had been a scandal, too, involving the twelfth grade Economics instructor that both caused him to be missing the following several weeks out of school and left Michelle's teacher sour. And the teen still hasn't been able to replace her stolen mug.

It's the next day and Peter slides into her first period classroom in high spirits, and a slight limp and an obviously injured face. There's a bandage over the bone of his nose, and a Transformers Band-Aid over his left pinkie and ring finger's knuckle.

"Wow. That really was a number," she comments when he slides into the desk parallel to hers.

He questions if she had thought he had been a liar about falling down the stairs. Her answer isn't direct, but she tells to take it as a "no."

(It wasn't the stairs.)

He takes her advise and squeezes out as much of _falling down the stairs_ excuse as he can.

He looks gross and a mess. And he's wearing a charcoal colored polyester jacket and fingerless black knitted gloves, and his lips are red and swollen and he hasn't bothered taming his disheveled hair. His elbows are scabbed. He turns in his homework, late, and doesn't take credit for his answers, admitting that he was forwarded the assignments.

He smiles. Oddly fond of his injuries.

Michelle stares.

She narrows her eyes.

She tilts her phone from side to side in her hands, wondering fruitlessly if there's an angle at which this guy doesn't look like a fucking black and blue patch quilt—she then scrolls through the rest of her pictures and wonders if Peter actually took anything _professional_ the times he's gotten a hold of her  cellphone. Bemused and vaguely scandalized, she scrolls her photos and comes across the picture she hadn't deleted, the one he once set as his contact picture and which number she deleted when they had an intense argument.

A grunted, disbelieving huff of laughter catches their ears from beside the lockers.

She swipes her screen, shrugs, and resolutely turns back to her phone.

Because Peter hasn't done it or _anything_ productive much, Ned pesters his friend at his locker. He asks why Peter hasn't actually done anything yet, and, _Jesus_ , nothing is going to be done  _at all_ at this pace. Because he's ungainly, a coward with anything that involves the opposite sex, Ned obviously states.

Ned takes a swig of his vending machine Coca-Cola bottle and shells another peanut into his mouth. He states that Peter is better at jigsaw puzzles, at miraculously never getting permanent marker on his hands, building hundred-piece Lego figures, of finding the missing answer or component in chemistry, at being hundreds of feet above the ground—literally _anything_ but dealing with women.

At the other end of the locker, Peter is popping a cough drop candy into his mouth and catches what he imagines are supposed to be furtive glances in his direction as Flash approaches Michelle. There is what looks like a disagreement that passes between the two. She's seen becoming defensive and Flash's eyebrows knot together. It ends quickly, abruptly, Michelle shouldering past forcefully and Flash teeters.

"By the way, what happened with the book?" Ned chimes.

"It canned."

Ned follows Peter's stare, un-breaking, watching as Michelle stomps off and out the building.

"That was weeks ago."

Peter nods in acknowledgement but not registration, only paying half attention as he turns back to his locker.

"So what are you going to do instead?"

Peter steals another glance, the heavy school doors creaking open, swinging close, students leaving in pairs, in groups. "Go talk, I guess?" And he begins quickening unpacking his unnecessary material for homework into his locker. "Ah, dang," he says to no one in particular.

Ned rocks back on his heels. "Did you forget that Michelle's not going to be saying after school today?"

 He freezes. Head whiplashing around. "Wait—why!"

"I dunno," he shrugs. "Some issue. Family, I think. Cindy's in charge of Decathlon practice today."

Peter gives a curt "dang," still rushing to stuff his backpack. Then louder, as he realizes the situation, " _fuck_!"

* * *

 

There's a news coverage, Michelle catches one night after dinner. It's nothing special—a quick dognapping gone awry, Spider-Man tripping the thief with a web line as she tried to run away.

Then the coverage changes to a house fire. The owners had not been home when it occurred. She doesn't know any of the victims.

Earlier, she had Chinese takeout. Greasy boxes of leftover fried rice and General Tso's chicken sit in the refrigerator. The teen lies on hr stomach, chin on the couch's armrest as the reporter glances frantically at a point behind the camera. Michelle suspects that he's probably new.

The television slickers to a new reporter, this one somewhere in The Bronx. She's a pretty Latino woman in a sun yellow dress and blue blazer talking. Michelle absently wonders if she would like a dress like that. As the woman speaks, Spider-Man is seen swinging in the background. Then, as if realizing the cameras, he slows, stops as the reporter points him out, and he skips into camera view to speak into the reporter's mic. She's smiling widely. She asks him a few quick interview-esque questions. He replies mostly polite, the other half with quips and jests.

"Oh he's got jokes," Michelle muses.

Right as he finger-guns to the cameras, she changes the channel.

* * *

 

"Who's that for?

She yawns into her fist, raising her eyebrows like she doesn't believe him. "Is this question for research again?" The question is sarcastic, and she gives a quirky look.

"Uh, yeah," Peter replies sharply, playing along. "Research. Science. Right."

Michelle's still perched on the edge of the concrete lining outside the school's back stairs, thumbs hovering over her phone's screen, and the staring begins to drag on... "What did you _really_ come all the way out here for? Not to just stare at me all day." Privately, her stomach swoons.

Peter slaps his hands together, then on his jeans, rubs them together as he talks. "I, uh, I need something from you—"

"When do you not?"

And at this he freezes, frowns. "What? Not that often."

She pulls one earbud out. There's electronic pop music still blaring, the bass the easiest to hear. "Please. Every time you've contacted me was to ask me for something."

He pauses, thinking, then raises a finger in the air. "That is false! What about that one time sitting with you at lunch near the ceramics—"

" _That one time_ ," she mocks. "Yeah. One time. That was months ago."

"Look. To be fair, you don't even have my number, so even if I wanted to—" He stops himself, realizing the poor excuse, just as Michelle voices that he has her number, despite. "...Right, that's stupid." He purses his lips.

"Just what do you need, Parker?" Now she's frowning, visibly upset. In truth, she feels hurt because in one aspect, he's right. If she wanted to reach out, she could have. But, really, she's just too—

His palms rub together and he brain stutters and he stalls. He wonders what it would be like, to just... _say_ things—that are on your mind, that you are feeling— _easily_. To mean it. To _know_ it too, _really_ know it, because he has trouble deciding between two different breakfast burritos most mornings. He can't fathom the quiet, the calm, and _confidence_ radiating from the girl in front of him, and silently wonders if she has some type of _cheat_ _codes_ necessary to succeed—like she does in her classes. Like he does just a hair short.

He's silent for a moment. Then his jaw opens, begins tripping over his own tongue—

The heavy metal door behind them swings open as Charles from Decathlon sprints past, out of breath, skids to a halt, turns back. Hoping up, he hisses, "hey guys! Whatever you do, _don't_ talk to Flash. Don't say anything. Don't look at 'em. He's in a _mood_."

"When is he not?" Peter speaks at the same time Michelle comments, "Like that's something we have to be _told_?" before Charles sprints off, leaving the school campus for the day.

Both teens look at each other in question. For the second time, the school double-doors swing open, banging against the wall, and Cindy, Sally, Betty, and Abraham come scurrying out. The first sees her friend and immediately makes a beeline to Michelle. She almost scolds, "where were you," and that there was drama the other had been lucky to miss. And as if just acknowledging the boy, Cindy quickly waves a "hi" to Peter before rushing her friend to hurry away.

He bows his head, giving a small wave, forcing a smile. Watches Michelle jump down, sling her backpack over one shoulder, and give one last glance at him.

Cindy suddenly stops. "Oh," she just remembers, "we're have a study group this Friday. You coming? ...Or are you bailing—because you're _too busy_ , again?"

His eyes widen, shocked. He glances between both girls. Michelle blinks back as calm as usual.

"I could—could—do—I mean, I guess. Sure. Yeah," he stammers, hands shoving deep into his pockets, kicking at a growing anthill at his shoe. A clump of mud gets stuck to his toe. "Sure. Do I meet you, or...?"

"Good. I'll text you. See you there." Walking off, their paces are rushing again.

It isn't until she and Michelle are out of sight does he remember to ask _where_ this meeting will take place.

* * *

 

He does arrive—albeit nearly half an hour late.

The meeting is a reserved library study room. Peter unexpectedly finds opened textbooks and strewn notebooks, highlighter markers, several calculators, opened packages of Reese's, Hasbro gummy bears, and Ned freezing when the door opens with his hand in a bag of Swedish fish candies like a child caught in a cookie jar. Peter's the only one missing.

No one speaks about Flash's absence, who has been quietly excluded for his recent attitude and not invited. Underneath the table, Ned shows a text telling that the bully had been given after-school detention for the next three days.

The study session lasts for three hours—with necessary breaks—before they're told to get out for the next reserved patron. Sally informs that she's already reserved another room for them that should be ready soon.

Besides the six others of the Decathlon team, there are three others in the group to help each other with upcoming exams and recently assigned homework. Peter gets stuck re-teaching about the recent lesson in Physics. Someone comments about the glasses he used to wear, and he feels his ears beginning to burn. His excuse is that he got surgery.

Going on four hours of studying, Peter gets an alert on his cellphone about an armed robbery. He sprints out with an excuse that he's been called home for an emergency.

Sally shakes her head in pity. "If he wasn't such a flake, I'd probably think he was actually cute." And she shrugs in dismissal.

* * *

 

That night he receives urgent texts from Ned. Apparently right after Peter left, "that's when things started getting interesting." He was also given a reminder that there was an exam in the next two weeks, and in Peter's worst class.

But unfortunately, Ned will be gone for those weekends, and Cindy refused to give a clear, definite answer when asked if she could explain the material to him. It wasn't like he was _good friends_ either. In fact, he isn't good friends with any of those who had been at the study session.

Sullen and worrying, he listed his options, crossed out the ones that weren't likely.

He isn't _overjoyed_ with his results, but he can work with it. Frankly, he's frantic, freaking out, and profusely overthinking his decision way too late following pressing the _Send_ button on his phone.

* * *

 

There's something cute, sweet, and innocent out having a crush on your lab partner—

If only those feelings came out forthright. If only Michelle felt the same way; if only she liked her lab partner—

They aren't lab partners anymore. Oh. Right.

If only Michelle was more vocal, more honest and true. If only she did as what the old Chinese woman at her volunteering told her to be. So here as she's glaring at the brunette boy with tossed hair, she gives him a quirky, suspicious stare, and she tries to ignore the thought that he's wearing the same, hopeful, doe-eyed look given to Liz just a year ago.

Michelle leans. Pops a hip. Pokes out a her lower lip and thinks, drags out her decision, and then, finally, "no."

And immediately his composure cracks, breaks. "No?!"

"Yeah, no."

"But what about all those other times you helped me?!"

She pouts her lip again. "You think I was helping you?"

He waves his hands exasperatedly. "Well what would you call them?"

"I would call them free handouts that got real old, real annoying, really fast."

"They weren't handouts, MJ. I wasn't using you. I thought we were fr—"

"That's not what the last several times you've talked to me shows."

He stops.

She has a point.

"Ok, you're right. Those were shitty excuses, but it was the only—"

"Excuses for what, Peter?"

Well, damn.

 _Shit_.

His brain short-circuits and snaps, going off with a faint fizzle. Used to the way she keeps her calm, but not in this aspect, he stammers out, "e—e—excuses? I said excuses, didn't I...?" the realization hits like a bus.

* * *

 

Michelle is thrown off. Her usually grumpy upturned lips parts. No words come out. She's likely reading too much into it, she thinks.

He proposes the possibility of meeting either Friday or Saturday. He's nervous, she notices. Idly, she wonders if his ears could turn the same shade as a pomegranate or tomato.

"Saturday," she says much cooler than she felt. "I volunteer then. You can meet me after at this little food joint a couple blocks away."

* * *

 

Objectively, Michelle understands that he's no longer _precisely_ in the right position or familiarity to be out with a boy—or, more specifically, with Peter.

Just _thinking_ about the fact makes her anxious, her hands shake, though he hasn't actually done anything yet except trip on the pavement and pay more attention to talking than his fork stabbing his food instead of the table. And— _Jesus_ , she's the most incomprehensible, incompetent human because it takes her an entire full minute to process his questions and produce the _right_ answer about the lesson, and she's ready to just stop. Give up. To do practically _anything_ except this—because _why_ did she ever say yes?

And when it starts raining, she's almost relieved.

"Dang," he says out loud, to no one in particular. Their empty wrappers and plastic silverware pushed to the edge of the table, near the window.

"What's up? You ready to go home," she mutters, again, much calmer than how she truly felt.

He knocks back his empty paper cup, eating ice cubes. When they melt, he answers. "No. There was this ice cream place I really wanted to go to around the corner."

Her hand glides across her notebook paper. And as she steals a quick glance, sees he's staring back, and quickly averts back down. She doesn't comment.

He knocks another ice cube into his mouth, settles in his seat, arms crossing over his chest. "Do you like ice cream?"

"What do you mean _'do I like ice cream_ _'_?" She pauses writing and he's inhaling deeply, uncertainly.

"I mean the ice cream place around the corner. You want—you wanna go?"

"Are you sure you understand the material?"

"Yes. Yeah."

"It's freezing outside."

"It's not _that_ cold—I mean—c'mon MJ!"

She raises an eyebrow.

He doesn't know entirely what he was expecting her to do, but the way she folds her elbows over the table, cocks her head to the side, considering, and levels him with a skeptical stare—he feels _exposed_.

"What is it you _really_ want, Parker? No one goes out for ice cream below sixty degrees weather."

His fingers drum on his biceps, and it looks like he's seriously searching for a comeback. Point blank, "what about that one time you had ice cream in the dead of winter?" She doesn't reply, so he continues. "So you're telling me that you wouldn't want _any_? It's _Japanese ice cream_!"

And it _totally_ isn't because she feels ten extra degrees underneath her sweater, or the hopeful gestures he makes to the window, and it certainly isn't because she wants an excuse to stay out longer—

She quickly begins gathering her things into her book bag, giving in.

Outside, the rain lightly pours.

* * *

 

"Like, I have a least favorite flavor of Snapple. Apple kind."

Gasp. "Apple is the best kind! If you don't like it, then we can't be friends!"

Mockingly, "I'm hurt!"

She shoves him playfully.

As the rain increased, pedestrians began clearing the sidewalks, and Peter buys an umbrella from a stand. The sun is hidden behind dark clouds, the sidewalks made slick and reflective. And it doesn't come to Michelle's mind that she should _probably_ be phoning for a ride home as he pushes her back playfully and she reaches out for his hair. He darts out of reach, leaving the umbrella covering, and he cries out loud at his mistake.

They past a street performer attempting to dance under a covering of a hotel. Michelle reveals in short detail that she used to take dancing lessons when she was in preschool. Also that she likes the sound and smell of rain. A woman hurries by wearing Gucci and her lips wrinkling around a cigarette.

The two have been walking for what feels like hours. The only measurement they go by are the melting towers of ice-cream from their taiyaki pastries.

Peter wears a sweater that's wet all down the left side. Michelle's hair is frizzing from underneath her rolled black hat. There's a comment given about the dwindling daylight. And as if on mark, her phone vibrates.

She licks at the green tea ice-cream dripping on her knuckles, handing him the umbrella. "I think that's... _dang_ , I have to take this."

Joking, "you don't have to make excuses." He follows her under a covered picnic table outside a small restaurant.

"When have I ever made excuses?" But he doesn't know if that is a trick question, so remains silent. "Dang. She is...she's really ready for me to come home. Geez." Michelle taps her location and excuse into a text bubble. She turns back to the teen sitting at her side, closing the app and sliding her phone back into her pocket. "Making excuses especially to _you_? That's stupid."

His hood is pulled up. "Because I'm a dork, right?" he smirks. There's something _extra_ that's hooked in his stare.

She squints. "Yes, because you're a dork, Parker. You've always been a dork. But sometimes that's not a good enough reason." It isn't dead serious, and by now he's begun to pick up when her words are meant to be taken lightly—as now.

"So you don't feel bad about, like, all my excuses? I mean, they worked, and you finally answered your phone," he laughs.

"Oh, no, I'm still mad." She licks at the remainer of her ice-cream. Freezes, silent for a minute. "I just remembered. My dead fourth grade tutor died from apples."

He's wearing a mixture of a grimace and a chuckle. "What the hell? What does that have to do with—with anything?"

"Dunno. Just a thought. It did happen though!"

Peter looks at her pensively. "This dog I once saw was allergic to apples, but it liked them so much he kept stealing them. He looked like a chipmunk because his cheeks swole so big."

Michelle's lips twitch. "Yeah?"

He cracks his knuckles, fiddling with the soaked paper around his fish-shaped taiyaki cone. "I mean...that's what the owner said. It looked like," retrieving his own phone, he did a quick Google Images search, "this."

Michelle snorts, and then giggles, and then tosses her head all the way back, exposing the long line of her throat and the deceptively fragile wings of her collarbones and the tiny pendant necklace he's never seen her wear before. She's happy, he thinks. In general, yes, but also right now. Currently. In this moment.

He had done that.

And it's a dumb thing to be so _struck_ by, probably—he hadn't really said anything particularly knee-jerking or amazing—but there's a certain explicit _truthfulness_ to Michelle, a comfortably compelling bounty of candor that he wishes he knew how to deal with a little better than he does now. She doesn't say things she doesn't mean. She doesn't _do_ things she doesn't mean. And it's enthralling.

"Thanks for this," she says, leaning into his side.

He drapes an arm around her shoulders and tries to keep his breathing in check. He feels trapped and desperate.

"My mom was very," she thinks of the appropriate word, "testy? Tired and impatient?" Giving up, Michelle shrugs.

Peter licks his lips, kind of startled, maybe, by how much he wants to comfort her, so much that he has to say to her, wants to say to her.

By how badly he wants to say it.

The rain bounces off the sidewalk and the toes of Michelle's boots sharply as she ticks it out from beneath the covered wire table.

Her ice-cream, green tea with custard filling at the bottom, drips further and she bites off the top of her taiyaki cone.

"On her way," Michelle tells about her mother.

Peter noticeably swallows. "That's—that's too bad." She hums in question, so he goes, jumping with a leap of faith, "this is nice. Just. Here."

"It is," she sighs.

At first it's quiet. He thinks he might have actually not screwed up. But then Michelle slowly sits up, and the air grows heavy and languid, and his heart is racing and she's suddenly hyperaware of everything—of the loud, echoing rain, of her pulse in her ears, the cold moist of her lips, tightness of her bra-strap, the heat inside her jacket that she swears _wasn't_ this hot just a moment ago, and humidity sticking her hair to her neck, his arm that's still draped around her shoulders; and suddenly everything's spinning; and she registers that he's leaning, he dares lean in closer, hesitates, waits, like he's gauging the situation, her reaction, his eyes flickers from her own down to her mouth and _holy fuck_ ; of ice cream falling from his soggy taiyaki cone to his jeans, hers uneaten, still in her lap, and he's leaning closer, and closer, and closer, and—

Their first kiss would be a mistake, she informs with her hand on his chest. Liz hadn't been her _best friend_ , but she respected the other too much to do this—

 _This_? What is _this_ , exactly, she thinks as she rambles aloud. It's been a year—a full year and three months, she thinks, idly—since Liz's departure and move.

"Yeah," she finalizes. Like, two inches away, Peter inhales deeply, swallowing whatever half-thought-out comment he would have spoken. Instead, he focuses on the diamond studs in her small, golden hoop earrings. "And I'm not about to do that. Not...not now." Michelle's phone buzzes, and she jabs viciously at a text notification. "Okay?"

He doesn't entirely know what he had been hoping, or expecting, or envisioning. But it wasn't this.

"Yeah."

Her phone begins to ring the chorus of a 80s R&B single as her ride calls.

"Yeah," he says again more quietly with a heart-heavy sigh.

* * *

 

Michelle is picked up thirteen minutes later. Her mother insists to offer Peter a ride, though he politely refuses.

Rain pelts the car's windows as the driver doesn't stop talking about the ridiculousness of Peter walking home in this weather.

Almost secretly, timidly, Michelle reaches out to wrap her forefinger around his atop the leather backseats.

* * *

 

Their first kiss was a mistake.

The second, however—

Their second one isn't.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> **This is my first attempt at writing for any Spider-Man era, so feedback is much appreciated. And kudos don't tell much anyway. Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? So please, it's very important that you _comment_.**
> 
> **Or, shoot me a complain and/or critic. Complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.**


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